


touch and (don't) go

by the_ragnarok



Series: Monstrous [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Clothes Porn, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Nonbinary Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:14:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24723616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: Jon wears a fancy dress. Martin is weak.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood
Series: Monstrous [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1787548
Comments: 15
Kudos: 380





	touch and (don't) go

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to bloodsbane for beta!!

Jon doesn't know what possessed him to buy the dress. He has plenty of acceptable formalwear, both trousers and skirts, button downs and blouses. All comfortable, modest, familiar.

He runs into it while browsing a second-hand shop, rifling through the clothes idly. Not his favorite way of purchasing clothes, but one that occasionally turned up unexpectedly beautiful, unusual items. His hand catches hold of something impossibly smooth, flowing like water over his fingers, and refuses to pull away.

When Jon finally manages to extract his hand, it comes out holding a clothes hanger from which pools a long-sleeved, long-skirted black dress. It seems roughly his size. If he's honest, he isn't thinking about the fit so much as he's thinking about experiencing that fabric on his arms and legs.

Inside the fitting stall, the dress slides onto him, rustling luxuriously. It feels wonderful. Cool, silky - he will later discover the dress is in fact real silk. He keeps running his hands down his own clothed thighs. It covers his chest, hands, legs; practically perfect. Except, of course, that he can feel the chilly air on his back, where the dress exposes him from the nape down to the small of his back, practically his entire spine on display.

Before taking it off, though, he hesitates. The material has a subtle shimmer, and a childish part of Jon wants to see it move on him. The only mirror in the shop is outside the stall.

Well. Nothing for it. He takes a deep breath and goes out.

"Oh my _God_ ," he hears behind him. He turns (the material swishing pleasantly around his ankles) to see the cashier looking at him with wild eyes. Even as he recoils slightly, she says, "That looks _amazing_. Please tell me you're buying that. It looks like it was made for you."

Jon looks down, then across at the mirror. It does fit him rather well, no excess room in the chest or hips that he can't fill out. Makes him wonder what sort of person the designer had in mind, making the garment.

It's too much fuss to tell her that he will do no such thing, Jon decides. He changes back, carefully hangs the dress from the hanger lest it wrinkle, and brings it to the cash register. Even as he pays for it, he knows he will never wear it. Where would he wear it _to_?

* * *

"Black tie event," Martin says blankly. "Lucky I'm not invited, I suppose."

Jon scowls. "If you leave me to face the donors alone, so help me, I will not drink any tea you make for a week."

Martin narrows his eyes. "Don't be mean." But he sighs and says, "Fine, I suppose I could always rent something."

"You'll look good in a suit," Jon tries. "Dapper."

Martin lets out a derisive snort. "Sure."

At times, Jon wonders what Martin sees looking at himself in the mirror. Jon doesn't consider himself a very good judge of sexiness, true, but Martin is perfectly appealing with his broad shoulders and soft, huggable frame. Solid and reassuring. He would cut a neat figure in a suit, Jon is certain, if only he could be persuaded to find something that fit properly.

Of course, there is the question of what Jon will wear. He recoils instinctively at the idea of a suit for himself. Too rigid, _wrong_. The thought of the dress rises in his mind and Jon almost discards it at once. Then he finds himself looking again at Martin, who is biting his lip and frowning.

Well. It is the only suitable item of clothing he can arrange, on such short notice. "I might have something," Jon says slowly. "I'll need help preparing, though."

"'Course," Martin says. "Trade you for help deciding on a suit?" Jon accepts with pleasure, and a faint sense of anticipation that he attributes to the thought of seeing Martin in a well-fitted jacket.

* * *

Jon steps out of the shower and into the bedroom. He inhales as he opens the closet door. Right.

The dress still hugs his body, just the right amount of snugness. The open back is a tad uncomfortable, the contrast of feeling the cold air touching his skin there and not elsewhere odd and unnerving, but he puts it aside in favor of choosing accessories. Nothing complicated: two teardrop zirconia earrings, a thick silver band over his wrist. Hair mostly left loose, the top section pinned back so it doesn't get in his eyes. Ready except for his sandals, which he'll need Martin's assistance with.

Jon emerges from the bathroom to find Martin doing up his shirt buttons and muttering darkly. It seems he'd put the buttons in the wrong holes the first time around, and is now trying to re-do it without injuring himself in the process. He looks up when he hears Jon entering, eyes going wide and cheeks coloring.

Jon permits himself a little shimmy, just to get the dress moving. "Do you like it?"

Martin, apparently still struck dumb, nods. His attention feels like a physical touch, warm and wanting.

Jon messes a bit with his hair, and says, "Oh, tell me if it's sitting alright in the back," and turns around.

Martin makes a sound like a wounded animal, and Jon stiffens. He is ninety percent certain that that's a _good_ noise, but what if it's not, what if he did something wrong? He turns back around quickly.

Martin coughs weakly, as if trying to pretend ignorance to the spots of color on his cheeks. "Are you sure we have to go?" he says. "Can't we just have a, a nice evening in?"

The thread of uncertainty still chafes at Jon. He plucks at the dress. "Is something wrong with it?"

Martin groans and gently lets his head thump against the wall. "Absolutely nothing. It's perfect, you're perfect, and I'm not sure I trust myself to leave the house with you dressed like this without embarrassing both of us."

Jon's face heats up. He ducks his head. If he's honest, he was expecting Martin to react favorably, but the reality of it is unexpected and thrilling. "What are you afraid you'll do?" He doesn't put any compulsion into the question, only curiosity.

"I don't know," Martin says, exasperated. "It's a figure of speech. Probably stare at you like I'm hypnotized and trail you around like a lost puppy."

"That's acceptable," Jon decides. He sits down on the sofa, wincing a little as his knees twinge. "Help me with my sandals?"

"If I spontaneously combust from how hot you are, you're cleaning up my ashes." That said, Martin fetches his sandals and kneels down next to him, letting Jon offer up his foot. Martin seems dazed as he takes it. "I feel like I fell into a production of Cinderella. Um." Instead of putting the sandal on, he's giving Jon an imploring look.

Jon sighs fondly. "What do you want?" This time, he does compel him a little.

Martin's eyes briefly roll back in his head, showing only white. Then he's back to looking at Jon. "I want to kiss your feet and your legs, put them over my shoulders and go down on you." His voice goes low when he confesses, like it usually does, husky and intimate.

Jon pets his hair. "You can touch my feet and my legs freely. I'm not ticklish." He doesn't bother mentioning his genitals. Martin knows where he stands on that.

Martin groans. He gently holds up Jon's leg and rubs his face against Jon's shin, like a cat scent-marking. He doesn't seem to mind the texture of the worm scars, or find them to be a hindrance to his adoration. He presses his lips to Jon's ankles, reverently, and then to the top of his foot. "I swear I don't have a foot fetish," he mumbles.

"I didn't think you did." Martin's enjoyment doesn't appear to be focused on any body part in particular, but on Jon in general.

Martin kisses him under the knee and nuzzles the inside of his thigh. "I love how you feel," Martin mumbles. "Fuck, I love you." He follows that up with a weak laugh. "God, I'm not going to be able to stand up."

Jon scratches gently down Martin's neck. "Do you want to get yourself off before we go?"

Martin hesitates, then nods. "Can I stay here? Are you comfortable?"

"Perfectly." Jon leans back and lets Martin do his thing. 

There's something startlingly intimate about watching someone else succumb to the kind of desire Jon doesn't experience. A vulnerability to how unguarded Martin lets himself be, shaking apart and mouthing Jon's ankle, trembling when the fabric of the dress brushes against his face. Jon pets his hair and makes soothing, encouraging noises. 

Finally, Martin shudders and stops, resting his cheek against Jon's thigh. "Now I can't stand because my knees are jelly," Martin says, voice low and thick. 

Jon huffs and holds Martin's head with both hands, keeping him close. Moving is overrated. 

They probably will go to the party, once Martin's caught his breath, and Jon will spend the evening enjoying Martin's eyes on him. Vain of him, perhaps; but seeing Martin's face looking up to him, flushed and adoring, he can't bring himself to mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Lookit this [gorgeous art of Jon in the dress!](https://parheliona.tumblr.com/post/621145220408639488/martin-is-weak-and-so-am-i-theragnarokd)


End file.
